


Ineffable Love

by LizzyLovegood



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyLovegood/pseuds/LizzyLovegood
Summary: Little Ineffable Husbands ficlets based off prompts I get. They just love each other so freaking much, OK?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	1. Prompt: Pancake

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written anything fandom-related in years and I've been hyper-fixated on Good Omens and Aziraphale/Crowley since the show came out. So since I'm stuck at home in self-quarantine, here is my attempt to get back on some type of fan-creations horse. (Also, is that title not the most creative genius thing you've ever seen?)
> 
> There is no set update schedule right now, it's just as I feel like writing.
> 
> If you want to see me write a prompt, just send in a word or phrase (by comment or PM) and I'll try and write something on it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning-after pancakes are the best pancakes. Or are they crepes?

Aziraphale followed his corporation’s sensitive nose down the hall to Crowley’s shiny, modernist kitchen that didn't look like it could create such delicious smells. But Crowley had always been one to defy expectations.

“My dear, are you making _crepes_?”

Concentration entirely upon removing one of the golden-brown discs from the pan, Crowley responded, “I’m making _pancakes_ , angel.” He pointed at the box which clearly stated that it was “waffle and pancake mix.” “Same thing, except you can eat them without feeling like a pretentious bastard.”

“ _Pretentious_?” Aziraphale echoed, clasping a hand to his chest. “Crowley, just because I enjoy the fine things in existence I am most certainly _not_. . .” He was cut off as a syrupy, crispy bite was popped into his mouth. Raising his eyebrows, he sucked for a moment on the finger and thumb attached to the morsel before Crowley popped them back out again with a low growl.

“Didn’t say that was a bad thing, did I, angel?” he asked. “My. Pretentious. Bastard.” He punctuated each word with a kiss. “Who I would take back to bed right now if I didn't know you’d throw a right fit over your _cr_ _epes_ burning.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale patted his demon’s cheek, smiling sweetly and working at the apron string around Crowley’s waist. “These are _pancakes_.”


	2. Prompt: Crayon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock makes a drawing for his nanny.

“Nanny, where’s the yellow crayon?” asked the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of this World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness aka Warlock Dowling.

“Yellow?” said Nanny Ashtoreth aka Anthony J. Crowley. “What do you need the yellow crayon for, dear? We have a lovely black crayon here, for the sky. And grey and brown for the nuclear wasteland that will be Earth under your rule. Oh, and look at this pretty _r_ _ed_ one, for the spilled blood of your enemies.”

“And for your hair, Nanny!”

Crowley smiled. “And for my hair, yes dear.”

“So I need yellow for Brother Francis’s hair!”

“Brother Francis? Why would Brother Francis . . .” Crowley peered over Warlock’s shoulder at the drawing she had only been half paying attention to. The sky was black, as she had suggested to Warlock but instead of a desolate waste there was a strip of green grass along the bottom of the paper (it could use a good shouting at, Crowley thought, to perk up some, and made a mental note for later). In the center of the page were three people: one short boy with dark hair, a tall, thin figure all in black with red hair, and a shorter, squatter brown splodge who was missing his shock of angelic white-blonde curls that Crowley yearned to run her fingers through. The last two figures were holding hands.

(Wedged into the far corner of the paper there were two sad-looking stick figures labeled “Mom” and “Dad,” but Crowley hardly noticed this.)

Crowley swallowed hard. “Very nice, dear. But, you know, Brother Francis and I aren't . . . we hardly know each other. Why are we holding hands?” She sounded, she thought, like Aziraphale, denying their friendship so many times through the millennia.

“I've seen you talk to him,” said Warlock. “When you think I”m not paying ‘tention. Or when you think I’m asleep. _And_ you were looking at him through the window this whole time.”

Crowley darted another glance out said window where Brother Francis aka Aziraphale was doing his best to murder a rosebush. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She snapped a yellow crayon into existence and handed it to Warlock.

Warlock didn't say “thank you” (very Antichrist-like activity, that), just drew a few squiggles on top of Aziraphale’s head. Then he handed the drawing to Crowley and dashed out of the room, calling, “Let’s make cookies now!” over his shoulder.

Carefully, Crowley folded the drawing and smoothed out the seams before tucking it into the upper pocket of her dress. It wouldn’t do for either of their sides to get wind of this.


	3. Prompt: Facemask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes facemasks for the coronavirus pandemic. Crowley is flattened by his angel's adorableness.

“Angel . . .” Crowley plucked one of the offending items from the box full of them that sat on Aziraphale’s desk. “What is this?”

Aziraphale glanced over from the sofa, where he sat with a half-drunk cup of cocoa in one hand and a half-finished book in the other. “ I think that would be obvious, dear. They’re facemasks, for that new human pandemic. The hospitals are in desperate shortage of them so I made these.”

“You made . . . _tartan facemasks_?”

“Yes. I found the material on this delightful little crafting Web site. And then someone made an instructional video on that ‘YouTube,’” Aziraphale made air-quotes around the word, “you showed me on how to make them so I followed those, and I think they came out quite well, don’t you?”

“They came out likerrrghng . . .” Crowley’s face twisted as he searched for the appropriate word, taking in first the box of offending facemasks and then Aziraphale’s expectant face. _Fuck_ , he was adorable. “Something,” he settled for.

“Oh, I _am_ glad you like them!” Face folding into a smile, Aziraphale finished his cup of cocoa, leaving a chocolatey mustache on his upper lip. He snapped his fingers and the box of facemasks disappeared, no doubt teleported to the nearest medical facility in need. “Stylish _and_ safe is what I say.”

“Mm-yep.”

“I even made a few extras for us,” said Aziraphale. “I don’t think we can actually _get_ sick from it, but I would hate to inadvertently pass it on to someone who _could_ get ill.”

Put that way, plus his angel’s earnest face, and Crowley had no choice but to take the spare tartan-patterned facemask that Aziraphale was holding out to him.

“I made it red and black, too, dear, just for you!” he said, pointing out the color pattern on the mask.

Crowley groaned.


End file.
